Ian Murray - June 17, 1992

When I had Ian, I was not yet the complete natural-birth maniac I later became, but after having Alistair, I’d done some reading about home birth and by the time we were expecting our next baby, I had my heart set on one. I’m ashamed to say that after pleading and tears, my husband relented (I didn’t do it intentionally, but I did NOT want to give birth in the hospital again), and we contracted a licensed midwife. Things went reasonably well during the pregnancy, until Lisa, my midwife, grew concerned about the amount of sugar spilled into my urine and insisted on testing my blood sugar. I flunked her at-home test, and she risked me out, right at the eight-month mark. She chose an OB practice to refer me to, one with three doctors, a woman and two men. She hoped that because one of the men had done home deliveries over in England, that he might treat me with respect. I met with the other male doctor first, though, and he hugely failed to impress me, with some crack about changing my plans for a home birth: “Well, at least now you won’t have to buy new sheets.”

Still, I had no choices. I went then for a three-hour glucose tolerance test and failed miserably—levels at 231, 230, and 197 at the one, two, and three hour marks. The OB practice sent me to an endocrinologist, who wanted to put me immediately on insulin. Knowing that I hadn’t been as disciplined as I’d needed to be, I begged for a trial on a very strict diet. The doctor said he couldn’t give me the week I requested—the life of my baby was at stake—but he agreed to a weekend, Memorial Day to be exact, which gave me an extra day. He gave me a crash course on what to eat and what not, and when, and how much, then sent me away, never doubting that I’d be back the next week with my levels still high, ready to go on the insulin.

Once home, I got on my face before the Lord (figuratively, of course; I was HUGE at this point) and pleaded Him to help me. And … my sugar levels dropped. The endocrinologist was astonished, but agreed to allow me to continue on the diet as long as my sugar stayed under control.

During the next month, I learned about controlling portions, and “good” carbohydrates versus “bad” ones, and just how deplorable the medical system is about truly educating people on a true diabetic diet—or is it, I wonder now, because people don’t truly listen? Maybe some of both. Because to be fair, I feel indebted to this particular doctor for teaching me how to discipline myself. I already lost my chance at a home birth; I couldn’t bear the thought of having to shoot myself up with insulin as well. (It was traumatic enough having to do the finger sticks to check my sugar levels.)

Two weeks before my due date, we agreed to an ultrasound. Not only did I find out I was carrying a boy, but they started telling me how big the baby was and how worried they were that I’d be able to deliver naturally. So, when my appointment came the next week, the doctor—the woman in the practice this time, Dr. Stroud—discussed induction with me. I didn’t know how to resist, so I agreed. First they talked of doing it the next day, but as I waited in the office, they apparently discovered they had an opening that afternoon, so would I be willing to do it that day?

Sure. Why not.

I drove home, trembling. I’d be having my baby that day! I called Troy, and as I packed for labor and the stay afterwards, he came home, and we drove to the hospital. My midwife Lisa had offered to doula for me in the hospital, and she met us there, bringing along one of her assistants.

I was prepped, IV’ed (I hate IV’s—see Alistair’s and Erin’s birth stories), and my water broken first to see if labor would start. I had a few contractions, but nothing serious, so I was started on pitocin sometime just after 3 PM. Labor was easy enough to deal with at first. Lisa’s assistant read Scripture, Troy held my hand and generally just hung out in a state of thinly-veiled excitement (he’d missed Alistair’s birth, so this was his first time), and Lisa took pictures. Around 4 things started to get hard. I tried to listen to one of my praise music tapes and just burst into tears. The nurse, who had been helpfully offering pain medication practically since they turned on the pit, was only too happy to bring in the Nubain when I begged for it. “It’ll just take the edge off the contractions,” she said.

It didn’t take the edge off anything, I found, but my ability to respond to the crushing agony rippling through me.

Within 30 minutes of the Nubain being administered, my cervix was completely dilated. What a shock—after 30-ish hours of unaugmented labor with my first child, and several hours between 7 cm and 10, even with my water broken (which doesn’t really help speed things up, I’ve since learned), this time I’d gone from about 3 to 10 in about 40 minutes! My first labor might have been long, but it was so much more tolerable …

“You’re doing great,” Lisa told me. “You’re going to see your baby soon!”

But, I thought, it’s just another boy. I’d hoped for a girl this time.

Second stage—pushing—was also a shock, 10 minutes compared to about 3 hours last time. I started out on my side till the baby’s head crowned, then I turned over into a semi-sitting position. Oh, the pressure … oh, the burn! I didn’t remember this last time, but last time I’d let that dork of an ex-AF doctor talk me into a pudendal block—so everything past crowning was new sensation for me.

Earlier, I’d heard the yells of a woman laboring down the hall and had been afraid of making noise and being overheard—now I was the one shrieking. But the urge to push was undeniable, and no matter the burn, it did feel good to be doing something toward ending the labor.

The baby’s head was born, but then his shoulder became stuck. I gave a single long, mighty push. With an audible pop, the shoulder slid out from under my pubic bone, and the doctor lifted his body from mine. I opened my eyes as she handed him to me—and was immediately in love.

It didn’t matter that he was still grayish and covered in lots of vernix, that slippery white substance that protects a baby’s skin in utero—and it certainly didn’t matter any more that he was “just another boy.” I took one look at this tiny creature that God had knit together inside me, had formed from me and Troy, and the joy rushed through me. I took him in my arms, my heart already wrenching at the bruising of his face and the one shoulder and arm from his brutally fast birth (stupid pitocin), and crooned to him of my love.

Obligatory childbirth educator/birth junkie patter: With all these years behind me now, I understand so much more than I did at the time—why induction isn’t best for mom or baby unless there’s a solid medical reason for it … and how it was my birthing position, and the pitocin itself, that contributed to Ian’s “stuck” shoulder, and NOT his size. He was my smallest baby, with the exception of Duncan—9 lbs. even—and I went on to have six babies larger than him, at home, without the need for assistance. But of course at the time, they were all saying, “Oh, it’s so good that we induced you! You’d never have been able to have him naturally otherwise!”

Also, because of the Nubain being given so close to the end, not only was he too groggy to nurse right away (the facial bruising didn’t help), but we had more jaundice to deal with than we otherwise would have. I’m grateful they didn’t insist on a longer hospital stay with bili lights—I did phototherapy at home, and frequent nursings.

While I wish he had been able to be born at home, the knowledge I gained about proper diet, and the firsthand experience of why NOT to induce just because “the baby is big” (the ultrasound estimated him at 9 lbs., which was impossible since babies gain a half pound or more a week during the last weeks), served me well with later births.

Ultimately, of course, it was another reminder that the Lord holds us in His hands, and redeems even less than ideal situations.

And Ian was such a sweet baby. :-)

Alistair's Story | Ian's Story | Erin's Story | Ross' Story | Breanna's Story
Duncan's Story | Cameron's Story | Corrie's Story | Meeghan's Story